The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (15 page)

Pat cut in, “I’m getting to that. Just listen, will ya? A few days ago, another old associate of mine was killed down in Arizona. His name was Gilbert Hayward. He was one of the founders of Lenin’s Legion, along with the two who were killed in Chicago. He was also with me when we had that riot in Chicago.”

“You mean the one where you were accused of breaking that cop’s neck?” Siobhán asked.

“Yeah, that one. Anyway, a note was left at the scene of Hayward’s killing, indicating that whoever did it was trying to send a message to people like me,” Finnegan continued.

“What did the note say?”

“It said, ‘Fuck Lenin’s Legion’ and was left tucked into a typewriter outside the cabin where Hayward’s
body was found, along with the manuscript of a book he was writing about his days in the revolutionary movement we were part of,” Finnegan replied.

Siobhán looked puzzled. “Why would anyone care about Lenin’s Legion when it’s been out of existence for almost thirty years now?”

“I don’t know, but apparently someone has what they figure is an old score to settle. I’m worried that I may be on the list of whoever is carrying out these killings. So far he’s shot, blown up, and burned his victims alive. And I’m worried as hell that he may be coming for me next.”

“I knew your friends in Chicago died in a fire and their nephew was shot, but you mentioned a bomb. Is that how your friend Hayward died?”

“Yes,” Finnegan said. “The sick bastard who killed him tied him up and blew his head off in his cabin.”

Siobhán was concerned. In fact, she was beginning to get downright scared. “Pat, we better call the police and ask for some protection.”

“Are you kidding, Siobhán? Do you really think they’re going to be interested in helping someone they think beat the rap for breaking the neck of one of their own? Not a chance. Besides, what evidence do we have that I’m a target? No one’s contacted me or made threats. They’ll just laugh at me and tell me I’m paranoid or, worse, tell me it’s karma catching up.”

“So what do we do, Pat? How are we going to protect ourselves if we can’t go to the police? Maybe we should just pack up and get out of New York. Yeah. That’s it. We can go someplace where nobody knows us. Get a fresh start. Change our identity.”

Finnegan shook his head and replied, “Yeah, and what about the bar? How do I just unload the bar, sell the house, and drop off the map? You’re not using your head, Siobhán. You can’t just disappear into thin air these days. Whoever is doing this will find me if he has a mind to. No, I’m just going to have to be careful and look over my shoulder until I can be sure I’m not on his list.”

“What about me, Pat? What about my safety? What if he tries to get to you by harming me?”

Finnegan thought for a minute before replying. “You know, you’re right. What about you? I don’t need the extra burden of worrying about you. Why don’t you pack a few things and go to your mother’s until this thing blows over? It’s gonna be tough enough just watching out for myself. I don’t need the extra stress of worrying about what’s goin’ on with you when I’m not around.”

“Okay, Pat. I think I’ll do that. Just for a couple of weeks,” Siobhán replied.

“Fine, I’ll call up and get you reservations on a flight to Cincinnati then.”

The next day, Siobhán Finnegan was safely on a plane headed for Ohio, leaving her husband to watch his own back and figure out a way to avoid falling victim to an assassin he was convinced would soon come calling.

R
yan had an uneventful trip through Colorado and Kansas after his encounter with the state police. He arrived in the Kansas City, Missouri area late in the evening and a little ahead of schedule, so he began entertaining thoughts of visiting the Truman Museum in Independence the next day. After that, time permitting, he’d drive up to Kearney and visit the James farm.

Always a fan of the late president, he admired the leadership of the feisty little Missourian known as Give ’em Hell Harry, whose accomplishments included using the atomic bomb to end World War II, implementation
of the Marshall Plan, integrating the armed forces, and kicking the commies out of South Korea.

Addicted to books and movies about Western gun-fighters and outlaws, Ryan also looked forward to taking the side trip to the boyhood home of Frank and Jesse James. They were still revered as folk heroes by some Missourians who chose to ignore some of their more infamous acts.

Pulling into a rest stop just off the interstate to check out a map of the area, Ryan decided to call Carol. He missed her and longed to hear her sweet voice. Dialing, he waited for her to pick up the phone and was disappointed when her voice mail answered instead.

After ending the call, he surveyed the area, as he always did before exiting his car. In his rearview mirror, he saw a figure dart past the back of the vehicle.

Aware that he was alone in the parking lot with no other travelers nearby, he reached under the seat and retrieved his .41 magnum, which he brought up and leveled in the direction of a knife-wielding man, who opened the driver’s side door.

“And just what the fuck can I do for you, shit for brains?” Ryan asked as the man—a skinny, bare-chested, tattooed skinhead, wearing a leather vest and blue jeans—stopped dead in his tracks and stood staring blankly at his intended victim.

Ryan got out of the car and advanced toward the man, who began to back away.

“I, uh… I…” the man croaked.

“Spit it out, asshat. What is it that you want? Do you want to rob me? Is that what you want? Well, come on ahead, then. Rob me, punk. Take your best shot. Stab
me with your knife,” Ryan sneered as he moved menacingly toward his would-be attacker.

The skinhead dropped his knife and put his hands in the air, as if thinking that would somehow end his predicament.

“Uh-uh, asshole. No. You’re not gonna come at me with a knife and then give up because the deck’s been turned. Pick it up, dickhead. Pick up your fucking shiv and finish what you started,” Ryan ordered. He was enjoying this little encounter and wondered how many poor, unsuspecting travelers had fallen victim to this scummy little cockroach.

Ryan caught a shadow moving toward him out of the corner of his eye and swung around just in time to see another puke-faced degenerate coming at him. Pulling the trigger of his magnum, he center-punched the would-be assailant and sent him flying backward to the ground, where he rolled in agony. Ryan approached and kneecapped the screeching criminal in both legs.

As he turned back around, he saw the first man running away and quickly fired two shots into his buttocks, sending him flying forward on his belly.

After a quick scan of the area to make sure there were no security cameras that needed destroying, Ryan got back in his car and raced for the on-ramp, where he turned on his headlights and headed east.

Stopping in Kansas City, with side trips to Independence and Kearney, was now out of the question. It was imperative that Ryan put as much distance as possible between himself and the two dirtballs that he’d shot up before someone discovered them.

He didn’t know if they’d survive and he really didn’t give a damn. The one he’d gut-shot and capped in the knees might not, but the other one only had a couple of bullets in his ass, so he’d probably make it.

Ryan felt good about what he’d done and wasn’t worried about them giving a description. Who’d believe them or give a shit anyway? And besides, he’d be out of the state before any unlikely BOLO was put out for his car. Chances were that they were both wanted for something and the cops would get a big laugh out of the fact that someone did them the same way they’d undoubtedly done others.

Totally jacked up on adrenaline, Ryan bypassed Kansas City and didn’t stop until he’d put about a hundred miles between himself and the rest stop where he’d ventilated the two punks. After a pit stop for gas and a large coffee to go, he continued on. At the rate he was traveling, he’d be in St. Louis before dawn. He could rest up there before pushing on.

The sun was just coming up when he saw the St. Louis Arch looming on the horizon. Pulling into the first coffee shop he came to, he went inside and grabbed some bacon and eggs. His next task was finding a place to stay for a few hours.

He found a small motel with an AAA sign. The proprietor was gracious enough to charge him half rate when he told him he’d be leaving by noon and only needed a few hours to catch up on some sleep. The man also agreed to give Ryan a wake-up call.

The office rang at eleven a.m. Ryan checked out and thanked the guy at the desk. As he left the office, a headline on one of the newspapers in the rack outside
the door shouted out at him with the words, EXTRA! FUGITIVES IN MISSOURI PRISON-BREAK CAUGHT! The pictures on the front page were of the two creeps he’d put holes in a few hours earlier. “Holy Christ,” he thought, “I hit the jackpot on that one.”

It turned out that both men were serving long prison terms. One of them, a guy named Cletus Godwin, was doing twenty-five to life for kidnapping and armed robbery. The other, Brandon Lee Burrows, a serial rapist, was serving two consecutive life sentences. They’d been able to conceal themselves in a truck leaving the prison after making deliveries. They had been on the loose for a couple of weeks.

The article went on to relay how they’d been found shot in the parking lot of a rest stop near a car they’d stolen earlier in the week and that both were expected to live, although Burrows was in critical condition from bullet wounds in his upper abdomen and knees.

Both escapees were under sedation and had not yet been interviewed by police. Ryan was pleased about that. He’d probably be in New York by the time they were and knew that the more distance he put between himself and Kansas City, the better.

F
innegan stayed home for a couple of days after Siobhán’s departure and tried to figure out what he could do to protect himself from the killer he was convinced was headed his way. Should he carry the illegal gun he had stashed in the closet and risk getting stopped by the cops, who would more than likely be delighted to hit him with the Sullivan Act? Or should he perhaps hire one of the neighborhood goons to shadow him and take out anyone caught tailing him?

One thing was certain. He couldn’t hang out at home like a cornered rat forever. He had a business to run and bills to pay. Besides, by the sound of things, he wouldn’t be able to hide from whoever was doing in his
friends. The killer, whoever he was, seemed to have the senses of a homing pigeon.

“Screw it,” he thought. “I’ll carry the gun and I’ll call around and get some muscle to back me up as well.” Finnegan picked up the phone and dialed one of the many shady characters who hung around his bar.

When the party on the other end picked up, Finnegan said, “Louie, I have a problem.”

Louie Vitanza liked to pass himself off as an important member of the underworld, but he was really nothing more than a petty crook. His main venue was fencing stolen property, pushing dime bags of heroin, and talking shit about his “connections.” Those connections, which were minor at best, made him feel like a big shot and, in his eyes at least, made up for his small stature.

Louie cited his so-called connections as a means to impress and attain leverage with unsuspecting contacts, and in a lot of cases the exaggerations worked. He even had some people believing he was a made man, although the real wise guys, who used him to run flunky errands once in a while, would probably bust his chops if they thought he was misrepresenting himself as one of them.

“Yeah, so what’s yous problem and how can I helps ya wid it,
paisan
?” Louie responded.

Finnegan began to explain, “You know about my past as a…”

“Yeah, yeah, I knows all about dat, Paddy. Da pictures is all ova da walls in dat bar a yours. So save yous bredth and jus led me know what dats got ta do wid yous callin’ me,” Louie cut in.

“What an illiterate fuck this imbecile is,” Finnegan thought, annoyed that he had to reach down into the gutter to solicit help from this uneducated, mentally challenged idiot.

“People are being stalked and bumped off, Louie. They’re people from my past—the ones you say you already know about from hanging out at my bar. There’s a pattern developing and I’m guessing that I’m going to be getting a visit from the killer very soon. I was thinking that…”

“I got it. Yous thinkin’ dat your ole
paisan
, Louie, can get some of his friends ta give ya some cova. No problem, Paddy my boy. I knows some pretty bad actoes out dere and I tink I’s can set somethin’ up fo yous. Jus give me a day or two,
capisce
?”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ weasel, I
capisce
,” Finnegan thought to himself before replying, “Okay, Louie, I appreciate it. And the sooner the better. I really have an uneasy feeling that this guy may already be in New York.”

Finnegan hung up, grabbed his gun from the closet, and headed out the door, feeling slightly relieved that at least he was initiating a defensive plan for himself. Little did he know how accurate his statement to Louie had been when he’d proclaimed “this guy may already be in New York.”

R
yan didn’t have any trouble finding Patrick Finnegan. The barkeep’s name and address were in the phone book and, after familiarizing himself with the area, Ryan was able to find Finnegan’s home in a quaint little Brooklyn neighborhood. He watched as Finnegan exited his house and entered his car and then followed as he pulled out of his driveway and drove away.

Like a lot of working-class New Yorkers, Finnegan chose not to live in Manhattan. It wasn’t about the cost of living as much as that he’d lived in Brooklyn most of his life and saw no reason to uproot himself from the
old neighborhood. Besides, the commute wasn’t bad, especially in the early afternoon when he went to work.

A half hour passed before they arrived on the street where Finnegan’s pub was located. The terrorist-turned-barkeep pulled into an alley and parked in back of the place. Ryan, unable to find a parking place, took note of the location and drove off, finding a spot on the next block. He walked back and entered Finnegan’s place, taking one of the stools at the end of the bar.